by Mark Timlin
‘That’ll be nice.’ I sat down.
‘There’s chicken or smoked salmon sandwiches, a bean sprout salad and kiwi fruit,’ he said proudly. ‘I believe in healthy living.’
‘Good,’ I said. I knew I wasn’t going to get on with Hillerman. Healthy living indeed.
As I was making myself comfortable, Sophia returned carrying a big silver tray with a giant coffee pot, cream jug, sugar bowl and three cups. ‘Here we are,’ she said, and bent gracefully at the knees to put it on the table in front of me. I caught the briefest glimpse of the tops of her breasts and the white lace of her bra. Too brief.
‘Pull up a chair,’ said Hillerman to his secretary.
‘Pull up a sofa,’ I said and patted the cushion next to me. Hillerman gave me a slitty-eyed look. I wondered how long it was going to be before I wore out his effusive welcome. Sophia smiled at me and joined me on the couch.
As she sat, her dress slid up her long thighs, and as she tugged it down, I noticed that on the third finger of her right hand she was wearing a distinctive ring, featuring a black stone set in a gold surround. I checked the same finger of her left hand. Nothing. That was promising, if not definite in these liberated times.
‘What about calls, Sophia?’ asked Hillerman, rather nastily, I thought.
‘I’ve told the switchboard to hold all calls until further notice.’
‘Good. Come on then, dig in. There’s plenty here for everyone.’
I picked up a dainty sandwich and bit off half of it. Sophia poured coffee and the aroma filled the office. I had a vision of her pouring my breakfast coffee. It was almost too much to bear. ‘Black or white?’ she asked.
‘White,’ I said. ‘One sugar.’
Hillerman frowned like I’d said a rude word, then his face cleared. It wasn’t his body after all. ‘So what do you know about Sunset, Nick?’
‘I listen to it,’ I replied. ‘I live in Tulse Hill.’
‘Good reception?’
‘Crystal clear.’
‘That’s what I like to hear. What shows do you like best?’
‘Music. The blues and soul programmes mostly.’
‘We’re very proud of our coverage of that demography of music.’
Demography. What a fucking plank!
‘What about the talk shows?’ he asked.
‘I listen to the breakfast show,’ I said, and smiled at Sophia as if she might get my drift. ‘And the late night phone-in, when I can.’
‘Good,’ beamed Hillerman. ‘Do you like Peter Day?’
Peter Day was the presenter of the midnight to three in the morning slot. Day At Night it was called, but wasn’t as bad as that sounds. Day started off with a few personal viewpoints on the news, both national and local, then opened up the phone lines. His gimmick was that he slagged off every caller. It didn’t matter what angle they came from. Day would always find some way to insult them. He was an irascible, miserable, sarcastic sod. I quite liked him. He played the occasional record too. His taste and mine were almost identical so I caught his show as often as I could.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think I’d want to give him a call.’
Hillerman wasn’t amused. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘Day has been a bit of a thorn in our collective sides since he joined the station,’ explained Hillerman. ‘I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Nick.’ I hate it when people say that. It always means exactly the opposite. ‘Sunset Radio is just a stepping stone. Part of a master plan. The institutions and individuals who finance the business are looking at a wider horizon. A bigger picture.’
‘Yes?’ I said, trying to look more interested in what he was saying than in Sophia’s thighs. Her thighs won.
‘A nationwide commercial top forty stroke rock station, in competition with Radio One,’ said Hillerman triumphantly. He actually said ‘stroke’. Can you imagine the type of person who does that? ‘The frequencies are there, the demand is there, and so is the advertising money. Even in these straitened times.’ Mentally I put up my fees by fifty per cent. ‘But Day is a bit of a maverick,’ he went on. ‘And any real trouble could lose us the franchise we need so badly.’
‘Why don’t you just sack him?’ I asked. ‘Or is that a silly question?’
‘Not at all. We can’t sack him, and I don’t know that we want to. Day has a contract, of course, but then contracts are made to be broken. But he also brings in an audience. A little controversy keeps radios switched on. And radios switched on bring in advertisers. Ultimately that’s the name of the game. Oh, and he’s related to the MD.’
So that was why they, or rather Hillerman, couldn’t sack him. And it rankled. And it showed.
‘It’s never just what you know,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘But understand this, I have no argument with Peter. He’s a pro. Unfortunately he seems to have upset a rather unpleasant splinter group that operates in the area.’
‘Pick a number,’ I said.
‘I know what you mean, but this group is particularly odious.’
‘And they are?’
‘They call themselves Sector 88.’
If that was supposed to strike fear into my heart, it didn’t. I was none the wiser. ‘What’s their specific point of view?’
‘Neo-Nazism. White supremacy. They’re anti-black, Asian, Jewish, homosexual, feminist. You name it, they’re anti it.’
‘So they’ve got plenty of targets round here. It must be a full-time job.’
‘Precisely. Some time ago they sent some of their literature to the station. Peter got hold of it, gave it rather cavalier treatment.’
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘Of course. About a month ago. It was very funny.’
‘Sector 88 didn’t think so.’
‘And he had some of the loony tunes call him up. He gave them pretty short shrift too.’
‘That was the beginning of it.’
‘Of what?’ I asked.
‘They made some rather public threats, followed by hate mail and then a few parcels through the post.’
‘What kind of parcels?’
‘The usual.’ He looked over at Sophia. ‘Dog excrement. Human faeces. Offal.’
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘But nothing explosive?’
‘No. Not yet. But there’s always the possibility.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘Of course.’
‘And?’
‘What do you expect? There’s been nothing dangerous. Just unpleasant. The police have taken details, but they’re very busy.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Find out who’s sending the stuff. If you can get names, the police will take further action.’
‘Why me?’
‘You’re a local man. You know the territory. Besides, we encourage local businesses. It’s part of our brief.’
‘Fair enough. Why don’t you just get Peter Day to tone down his act?’
‘Impossible. He’s a man of integrity.’
‘There’s very few of us left,’ I said. ‘What’s he like? In the flesh, that is.’
‘He’s OK,’ replied Hillerman. ‘Except when he’s had too much to drink. Do you drink?’
Warning signs flashed in front of my eyes. ‘Lips that touch liquor will never touch mine,’ I said, and winked at Sophia. She smiled in return. I was going to put my hand on my heart but thought maybe that was pushing it a little too far.
‘Good,’ said Hillerman. ‘Peter can be a very bad influence.’
I shook my head sadly.
‘So, are you interested in the job?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. How much are your fees?’
‘Three hundred a day,’ I said, without turning a hair. �
��Plus expenses.’
‘No problem. Let’s give it a week to see how things go. Does that suit you?’
I nodded. It suited me fine.
‘Sophia,’ he went on, ‘will you go to Accounts and get a cheque made out to Mr Sharman for twenty-one hundred pounds? I’ll clear it with Simon. And get two hundred and fifty in cash for expenses.’
‘And I’m not very good at expense sheets,’ I said. ‘I tend to lose receipts.’
‘Better make that five hundred,’ said Hillerman dryly. ‘I’ll sign the slip.’
Sophia got to her feet and left the room. ‘I’d like to meet Peter Day,’ I said.
‘Of course. I’ll speak to him later, arrange a time and place and let you know. Can I have your number?’
I took out one of my business cards and wrote my home number on the back. ‘Anytime,’ I said.
‘So is there anything else you want to know?’ asked Hillerman.
‘Just one thing,’ I said. ‘Who opens the parcels that arrive here?’
‘Whoever they’re addressed to. Clyde in the post room opens any that are addressed just to the station and finds a home for them. Anything addressed to a particular presenter or department gets shoved in their cubbyhole. You see, we get hundreds a week… records, CDs, tapes from hopeful bands and DJs, videos, books, scripts. It’s a deluge. Almost impossible to vet.’
‘I hope you’ve warned your staff.’
‘Of course. Anything vaguely suspicious gets sent to Security.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll speak to Day and have a general nose round. Then I’ll speak to some acquaintances of mine into agit-prop politics, and a friend who works for the local press. See what I can dig up on Sector 88. I suppose there’s no proof that they’re actually sending the stuff?’
‘No, but it’s pretty obvious.’
‘Not good enough, I’m afraid. That’s why the police can’t do much. They can hassle the group, but they’re on a hiding to nothing without anything solid to go on. Give me a few days and I might come up with something.’
Just then Sophia came back into the room carrying two envelopes and a pad. One of the envelopes was white and thin, the other brown and thick. She gave them to Hillerman who signed on the pad twice then passed the envelopes to me. ‘You’re on the firm as of now,’ he said. ‘Welcome aboard.’
3
I went back to the office via my bank where I deposited the cheque. As I got in, Hillerman called me. He’d arranged for me to meet Peter Day later that evening in a wine bar in Brixton. He actually apologised for the choice of venue but explained that Day always went in there for a livener before his show. He didn’t actually say ‘livener’ but I knew what he meant. I told him not to worry.
I sat down and made a few calls, with little result. I tried the local paper, but my pet journalist was out on a story. Then I phoned a couple of people I thought might shed a light on Sector 88, but all I got were ringing tones or answering machines. I left messages where I could, then hung around until it was time to visit Mrs Cochran.
I got to the address she’d given me just before seven. It was in the middle of a row of terraced houses in a street opposite the park. The tiny front garden was neatly tended, and there was a light behind the frosted glass in the front door. I rang the bell. Through the glass I saw a vague shape coming towards me. A woman opened it. ‘Mrs Cochran?’ I asked.
‘Mr Sharman?’ she replied.
‘That’s right.’
‘Come in.’
She led me down a short hall that smelled of furniture polish and into a tiny living room. ‘Sit down,’ she said.
I chose the sofa.
She was a washed-out blonde, late twenty-something. Or maybe younger, and just looked older. ‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Sugar?’
‘One.’
She left the room and went into the back where I heard her clinking crockery. Whilst she was gone, I took a look round. It was a cosy room with a two-piece suite, a coffee table, TV, video, old-fashioned stack stereo, a pile of vinyl albums and tapes, and a bookcase without books. The carpet was dark brown and matched the curtains drawn across the window. The light source was two table lamps, one on the bookcase, one on top of the TV set.
She was back quickly. She must have had the kettle on the boil. It was the second time that day I’d had refreshments served on a tray. I could get used to it.
She put the tray on the coffee table and sat on the armchair opposite me. ‘Either one,’ she said, and I helped myself to a cup.
‘Do you smoke?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She took a packet of Silk Cut from the pocket of the cardigan she was wearing over a shirt and dark trousers.
I put my cup down on the floor beside me and accepted one. She lit them both with a disposable lighter. As she did so I noticed that her fingernails were bitten down to the quick. She fetched two ashtrays from on top of the bookcase and gave me one. I put it down next to my cup and saucer.
When we were settled she said, ‘Do you think you can help?’
‘I’ll be honest, Mrs Cochran,’ I replied, ‘I don’t know. But I’ll try. Tell me what happened.’
‘Simple. My dog’s gone missing.’
‘Not lost?’
‘What, Prince? Not a chance. He’s a big softy. He wouldn’t stray. He knows where he’s well off.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘Does he know where he’s well off, you mean?’ she asked, and smiled. The smile transformed her face and she looked years younger.
‘I didn’t mean it quite like that.’
She stopped smiling. It was like a light being switched off. ‘No, I don’t suppose you did. He buggered off four – no, five – months ago. Good riddance.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He’s been seen.’
‘Where?’
‘The Elephant.’
‘With the dog?’
‘No, it was a bit ago, before Prince went.’
‘You say he didn’t like the dog?’
‘He hated him, the poor little devil.’
‘But you think he might have taken him?’
‘I wouldn’t put anything past him.’
‘Why? If he hated him so much.’
‘To spite me, of course. That’s why I’m so worried.’
‘Why didn’t he like Prince?’
‘Well, first of all he was the wrong sort.’
‘Of what?’
‘Dog. Breed, I mean. Eddie wanted a Pit Bull or a Doberman or a Rottweiler. Something like that. A real man’s dog.’ She put a bitterly mocking edge on the last sentence. ‘As if he was a real man. But I knew I’d have to look after the creature so I got one I wanted. Here, I’ve got a photo of him.’ She took two photographs out of her other cardigan pocket and passed one to me. It was a Polaroid snap of a little West Highland White Terrier sitting on the living-room carpet, begging. He was a cute-looking little fellow with his head cocked to one side and his tongue sticking out.
‘Nice,’ I said.
‘Yes, he is. I named him Prince. Of course, that was wrong.’
I didn’t ask why. Perhaps I should’ve.
‘And this is him.’ She passed me the other photograph, also a Polaroid but taken outside, maybe in the back garden of the house. It was a head, shoulders and chest shot of a tough-looking character with receding blond hair cut very short, squinting into the sunshine. He was wearing a white shirt stretched too tight over his frame, with the sleeves rolled up to show big, tattooed arms. He didn’t look like Mrs Cochran’s type at all. Obviously she agreed. ‘I’m bloody glad he’s gone,’ she said. ‘We never got on.’ Once again I didn’t ask why.
‘What happened to Prince?’ I as
ked.
She looked puzzled.
‘Exactly how did he disappear?’
‘I don’t know. I was in the front doing a bit of gardening. He was with me. The gate was closed. The phone rang and I went to answer it. I was talking for maybe three or four minutes, that’s all. When I got back he was gone.’
‘Was the gate still shut?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he have a collar on?’
‘Of course. A red tartan one. He looks ever so sweet in it. There was a silver tag with his name and address on it, attached. You know.’
I knew.
‘And you’ve been to Battersea Dog’s home?’
She nodded.
‘But not the police?’
‘No. What do they care about a poor little lost dog?’
I had to agree with her sentiment. Finding lost dogs hardly fitted in with the new high-tech police presence. ‘Did anyone see anything?’
‘What, round here? No. It’s a ghost town in the afternoon. Most people are out earning their mortgages. I don’t know the neighbours anyway. They keep themselves to themselves. So do I.’
‘Can I keep these?’ I asked, tapping the photos on my knee.
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll get them back to you.’
‘Thank you. How much do you charge?’
‘Let’s see how I get on first.’
‘No,’ she said firmly, and went back into her cardigan again. She pulled out some bank notes, folded over tight. ‘There’s a hundred pounds here. I know it’s not much, but I want you to take it.’
‘Mrs Cochran,’ I said, ‘I’m not really a lost dog finder. I may very well come up empty-handed. In fact, it’s more than likely. I don’t want your money. I mean it.’
‘And I don’t want your charity,’ she said. ‘If you don’t take the money, I don’t want you looking for Prince. I pay my way.’
I thought about it for a moment. How easily Hillerman had doled out over two and a half grand that afternoon, and what sacrifice a ton must mean to her. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘Good.’ She smiled, and again her face changed. She reached over and handed me the cash. I put it in my pocket.
